


Wolf Dreams

by The_Divine_Fool



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book Spoilers, Grievers, M/M, Non-Canonical Violence, Prophetic Dreams, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:06:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Divine_Fool/pseuds/The_Divine_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't disappoint Newt. He couldn't turn out to be just another shank Greenie willing to run the maze like a trapped rat until his lungs gave out. He would be a wolf. A hunter with deadly intent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place AFTER Thomas's first night in the maze, and stretches that time out significantly to make everything a little more plausible. Canon divergence from book and movie, just slightly. You needn't have seen/read both to follow the story, though. It's pretty short and to the point, honestly.
> 
> BE WARNED here be spoilers for the Maze Runner series! Read at your own risk.

Thomas was exhausted. 

He enjoyed being a runner, loved it, and he found it familiar, sure; the sensation of leaning into his turns and making his way from section to section in the great maze was all so eerily familiar to him. At the height of his day, Thomas for once didn't feel like a rat stuck in a cage, but rather a wolf on a Wild Hunt. But despite the exhilarating, twisted kind of joy he felt as an animal, driven and unfeeling, Thomas was shucking _exhausted_. 

The muscles in his arms and legs and core seemed to pull and pile into odd places, joints creaking and complaining like rusty hinges. He knew they'd loosen up eventually, but it still made his evenings an uncomfortable crescendo of soreness. Minho was amazing; the guy did a few stretches, a few minutes of plyometrics, and then ran off to bathe. Thomas, on the other hand, was firstly concerned with refueling, and after completing his maps in the Runner's Hut, he immediately made his way to Frypan, an aching wolf on his way to the kill pile to collect his just desserts after a long day. 

Alby was still recovering, resting from his night spent in the maze. If he thought about it, Thomas could still feel the achy twinge in his shoulders from hauling himself and Alby up into the vines that night, all the while wondering if he'd ever know anything other than pain and fear again. 

Thomas limped through the Glade, clutching at his goat's milk custard and pork shepherd's pie—all just a kind of gray mass in his plate, but he was willing to accept Frypan's monikers and suspend reality for the time being—and made for the edge of the wood where a rock outcropping hoarded the last rays of sunlight, just a little ways off from the watchtower and the cooking fires. He stepped gingerly from stone to stone until he reached the highest—Pride Rock, they jokingly named it—and sat at the nadir of the sloping rock. He nodded numbly to Newt, who sat at the zenith of Pride Rock with his elbows on his knees, tearing into some strips of dried, leathery meat. Thomas focused on his dinner for a few minutes, giving his body the much-needed moment of stillness, before shielding his eyes to look up at Newt's perch.

The dying sun framed the Glade's second-in-command in a ruddy gold corona, glancing through the ends of his untidy blond hair and illuminating the dirt crusted to his forearms from a long day of labor. The light suddenly caught on his teeth as he tore into another strip of Frypan's tough jerky. 

A laugh, entirely inappropriate for the time, the environment, and for Thomas himself, bubbled up from his throat, a muscle so unused in the past few weeks that it came out as an unreasonably aged, dry chuckle. 

“Wot?” Newt muttered around his chewing, the corner of his mouth curling upward as if he suspected what Thomas was laughing about.

Highly unlikely. Even Thomas didn't really know. Something to do with the harsh contrast between this world and Newt. Newt, golden haired and pale like an old northern royalty, tearing at his dinner like any other animal teenage boy. The slope of his lamb's neck, his shoulders, hidden under dirty clothing. His wrists, under toughened leather holsters. Newt's soft, appealing features were probably what led Chuck and some of the other Gladers to jokingly nickname him 'Mom'. Whenever Newt heard it he took it upon himself to beat the klunk out of them, warning them not to hold back just because of his “broke” leg. It was smart of him to challenge something that seemed so harmless; the Glade was a dangerous and feral hierarchy: no tolerance for weakness or soft allowances.

“Nothin', just enjoying sun.”

“Naw, cummon, you can't laugh at me and not tell me the bloody reason. I swear, if its that nickname again I'll--”

“It's not the nickname, Newt, I swear,” He dodged a missile of rock hard gristle, laughing more naturally. “Though, honestly, I'm just glad those kid's've found somethin' to laugh about.”

Newt sobered quickly. “Aye,” He picked at the last bit of his food, head cocked at a questing angle, then looked back at Thomas through half-lidded eyes. “You're a kid, too, you know.”

Thomas focused stubbornly on his dinner, but the Glader wouldn't let him get away with silence.

“And you're _not_ responsible for us or our safety,” He insisted. “You hardly know us.”

“Whatever,” Thomas complained, feeling ironically like he was being admonished by a parent. “But...”

He put down his fork and stared at his palms for a moment. “It feels like a I do. Feels like I _am_ responsible for what goes on here, like I've got some lot in it somewhere else...”

“I don't know what you're going on about, Tommy, but I'll say this; if you ever do something as stupid and reckless and cluelessly heroic as what you did a couple nights ago with Alby and all that, I want you to know—”

Thomas cringed, waiting for the reprimand.

“I want you to know I'll be right behind you when you do.”

“You...?” Was the most intelligent thing Thomas could muster. 

“I'm serious,” He all but growled, staring down at his feet. “Listen, you may be a bloody idiot and I won't forgive you for running out like that when my two best friends were _already_ out there, but... I think you're our best hope for getting out of here. In three years, you're the best we have; I thoroughly believe that.”

Thomas was stunned, his food finally forgotten and slowly burning through the fabric over his knees. He felt an enormous relief from gaining the support from an authority figure in the Glade, especially considering his recent doubts and the reactions of both Gally and Alby whenever he suggested anything remotely resembling change. He also felt an enormous weight arrive and settle on his shoulders. He couldn't disappoint Newt. He couldn't turn out to be just another shank Greenie willing to run the maze like a trapped rat until his lungs gave out. He would be a wolf. A hunter with deadly intent. 

“I won't disappoint you,” Thomas forced himself to look directly at his glowing companion to affirm his own convictions. “I'll do whatever it takes, man, I promise. I'll get you out of here. You, Chuck, Alby, everybody.”

Newt stared at him for a long while. The sun had finally dipped beneath the walls, leaving Newt silver and cold as he appraised the Glade's newest prisoner. 

“Terrific,” He droned. “Now eat your bloody supper, Greenie.”

With that, Newt stood and brushed past Thomas in silence on his way off Pride Rock. Thomas watched as he leapt from rock to rock with all the grace of a lame antelope before finally reaching the ground and limping off in the direction of the Med-jacks' camp, probably to check on Alby. Thomas realized too late that his epic 'I'll do anything it takes' speech might have seemed a little insensitive considering Newt had been a Runner before an injury ended his service.


	2. Chapter 2

Much as he enjoyed running, and moreso sustaining the life of the wolf he felt rear its head in the maze and the way he could push his body to its absolute limits, Thomas did not enjoy running in the rain. 

It had been pouring in the maze. At first it was only a drizzle in the cool morning, an almost refreshing chillness against his skin that draped the maze in ghostly white fog, but then the skies broke at high noon and even the fog yielded to the hammering deluge. In summation, Thomas was drenched, sticky with sweat, water, and plant matter from the ivy walls, and his feet were itchy and raw from the ministrations of his soaked cotton socks. So when his desperate pilgrimage to the cooking fire was interrupted by Newt hooking him by the ear not ten yards from the comforting light and smells, Thomas dropped his dignity and _whined_ : loudly, and without restraint. It was something like: “Wait... I just wanna—Newt, I just wanna, please _please_ just let me... I'll do anything you want later, just _please_ \--”

“Oh, shut up, will you? You can't just--” Newt paused to curl a hand in the back of the Runner's shirt, hauling him away from the fire and food. “You can't just... _Listen_ , klunk for brains... Stop _wiggling!_ You can't get sick out here 'cause nobody's got time to care for you. We're not your guardians, not your nursemaids, not your mum, and I'll be damned if I let our already short supply of Runners dwindle even further because you're too much of a git to care about your health.”

Thomas gaped like a drunken fish. “Stuffing my _face_ is _definitely_ part of a well-balanced health plan. If I could just--”

 _“No!”_ Newt yanked him forward with more ferocity than his leanly muscled arms seemed capable of, then promptly dumped the Runner in the dirt. “Take off your clothes.”

“Wha-” Thomas looked up to realize he had been dragged to the bathhouse, the communal showers barren except for the faint drip of leaky pipes; everyone else was at dinner. 

“Take. Off. Your clothes,” The Glader reiterated, deadly slow. “Or I'll do it _for_ you, aye? Get a move on.”

Newt pulled the release for one of the showerheads, shoved Thomas toward the spray, and left. 

After leaving a set of dry clothes by the baths for the newest Glader, Newt walked slowly back to the cooking fire. Rain wasn't his favorite weather for many obvious reasons, but for the most part he disliked it for the pain it ignited in his stiff right leg. He'd known rain was coming for days now, simply because of the extra stiff soreness in his joints. God, he'd never felt more like an old man, especially hobbling back over to the light to finish his dinner, probably gone cold by now. 

He heaved a massive sigh, returning to his spot on a log close to the warm cookfire, and stretched his bad leg out towards the flame. 

“All right?” Frypan chirped, forcing a plate into Newt's hands. He'd warmed the second-in-command's food up. 

Newt blinked his gratitude and continued his meal.

“'Course he's all right,” Winston spoke up from the log adjacent to his where all the Keepers and higher-ranking Gladers gathered for dinner. “Ain't nothin' he loves better than motherin' that Greenie.”

Some of the Keepers snorted among scattered agreement. 

Zart glared around the circle while somehow maintaining his usual bored expression. “Now don't pretend none o' you shanks didn't get the same treatment. Nothin' wrong wit takin' care of yer own.”

“'Cept the Greenie don't need takin' care of. Healthy as a horse, that one. Ole Newt's got a crush is all.”

The circle erupted in barks of laughter and good-natured shoving, a few shouts from spilled soup and poorly aimed kicks. Newt, level-headed to a fault, held his tongue, rubbed his leg, and kept eating.

The former Runner dared raise his head when the clamor and movement of the group died down somewhat. Frypan was the first to break the new silence. 

“Greenie! 'Ere, got somethin' for ya, brother.” The usually irritable cook hand-delivered a steaming bowl of soup to Thomas, who'd arrived at the very edge of the firelight. 

He accepted the bowl with a quiet, “Thanks, Sig,” and after a few moments hesitation, picked his way over to Newt and, curiously, slid down into the grass at Newt's feet with his back against the log. Technically the inner circle of the fire was reserved for Keepers, but being a Runner granted you certain privileges, though Alby's second doubted Thomas knew any of this.

Conversation picked up shyly at first, then with the usual thunder of the Gladers as everyone grew bored of staring at the new Runner. Newt wasn't so quick to follow. Thomas's dark hair was still damp and stuck to his forehead in little clumps, but he was otherwise dry. The firelight glanced powerfully off his honey brown eyes and threw shadow into deep notches beneath his brow, making the 16-year-old look gaunt and deadly. 

Eventually a hand made its way into the firelight to clap down on Thomas's shoulder. “Good, man?” It was Minho. “Shit day. Looks like it freshened _you_ up, though.”

Thomas chuckled drily. “Y'can thank Newt for that. Thinks just 'cos he's got an accent he can boss us around.”

Minho released a hearty laugh.

“That's him, all right,” Zart admitted. “He ain't 'alf as concerned with _my_ health, though.”

Thomas shrugged, sending a sly grin at the farmer. “Resident den-mother, keepin' my ears clean.”

He knew he shouldn't've. The hush was back. Countless pairs of eyes turned to their corner of the cooking fire, reflecting light like a pack of hounds. Thomas was holding his breath, and when he couldn't take the stillness any longer, turned his head slightly to look up at the Glade's second-in-command. 

Newt launched himself from the log and Thomas's back slammed into the dirt for the umpteenth time that day. There were immediate shouts of approval, of appeasement and general merriment, barks of pain from people whose feet inevitably got stepped on in the ensuing tussle. Frypan let loose a grouchy caterwaul when Thomas's stew was dashed onto the ground, Zart rolled his eyes and Winston looked vaguely sadistically cheerful. 

Thomas had managed to set a knee against his attacker's hip and reverse their positions, trying to catch Newt's flailing arms. Too quickly one hand caught the collar of his shirt and hefted him off with the help of a swift kick in the gut. The Runner landed with the wind knocked out of him dangerously close to where the fire crackled in its stone circle, and quickly rose to retaliate, but Newt already had him in a headlock, one long pale forearm drawing tightly against his windpipe. Thomas grabbed the arm with both hands and ducked down, dipping his chin to his chest and successfully flipping the Glader over his back and onto the ground, a satisfying change in position, if Newt hadn't been quick enough to spin and sweep his good leg into Thomas's ankles and bring him crashing down as well. 

The Runner remained still, heart thumping in overdrive, whirling stress hormones in his brain congratulating him on a simultaneous victory and defeat. He couldn't help the few notes of exhilarated laughter that surfaced, even though one of his eyes was watering where he'd taken an elbow, and one of his ears still rang from a good box. Catching himself, Thomas looked quickly over at his opponent, ready to apologize, but relaxed when he saw that Newt, chest heaving and face flushed, was grinning back at him. 

“I didn't mean it,” He said anyway. 

“I know.”

“We're nuts.”

“I know.”

Thomas winced as a silt-covered rock glanced off his brow and rolled into the fire pit. “Alright, girls, get up. You can kiss and make up where we don't 'ave to watch.” It was Gally, of course. 

He scrambled up before Gally could throw another rock, and grasped arms with Newt to bring him up as well. The blond stumbled at first, putting very little weight on his bad leg. 

“Are you--?” 

“Come on,” He interrupted, limping away from the fire and into the night. 

Thomas glanced forlornly at his lost dinner, and resolved to get some leftovers later before trotting after Newt. 

“I would apologize for hurting you, but this was totally your fault.”

“You didn't hurt me,” He muttered, sounding a little exasperated. 

Thomas knew he was stepping on eggshells. “Seems worse than usual.”

Upon receiving no response, Thomas moved as close as he dared to the limping silhouette. He realized he wanted to know everything, like he always did, everything about the Glade and the maze, but now he wanted to know everything about the second-in-command, too. He wanted to dissect the mystery that was Newt the same way he was dissecting the maze. He wanted to run every corner of the adolescent until he could lean into the turns, and possess him like a wolf possesses its territory. 

Thomas shivered in the dark, the realization arriving hand-in-hand with an uncomfortable admission on his part. He _liked_ Newt. He was trapped in a wood filled with adolescent boys desperate to be free from terror and death and he thought he deserved to _like someone?_ Let alone like one of the most powerful people in the Glade? How juvenile, inappropriate, how utterly absurd. 

“What?”

Thomas snapped out of his self-pitying daze. They were at the rock outcropping. This far from the fire, the natural light of the night managed to pierce the encampment and line Pride Rock in silver.

“Huh?”

“Don't gimme that bullshit, Greenie. You snorted. What you snorting for?”

“Oh, uhh... no reason, really.”

In the cold light, Newt's lip curled. Thomas flinched. The blond turned and began the slow process of climbing to Pride Rock.  
Unwilling to accept a dismissal just yet, the Runner leapt at the rocks emphatically until he overtook Newt and bounded up to Pride Rock, reaching back in time to offer a hand to his leader.

“I was just thinking about something. Really stupid, actually.”

“I don't doubt it. But fine, keep your secrets.”

“...Maybe just this one.”

Newt assumed his watch at the highest point of the rock, Thomas settling down dutifully at his feet, grousing a little about how he was cursed to remain infinitely subordinate to the object of his affections.

“I'll tell you a secret.”

Thomas looked up curiously, but Newt was peering out at the walls, a dark look in his eyes. 

“I was a Runner.”

He already knew that.

“I guess Minho's showed you the maps in the Hut by now, yeah? All that mapping, all that intricate work, running the maze sections day by day like mice running the gears of a clock. I started to hate it, being a Runner, and not only for the burden of truth we carried. It was tedium, sure, but it was also... humiliating. The beetle blades, the supplies from the Hole, the way the Grievers work so systematically. It's all a bloody joke, isn't it? We're being watched, played with. It was maddening. Truth is, I wouldn't know how to live if I ever got out of this place. So I jumped.”

Emotions, jerk reactions went off rapid fire behind Thomas's eyes. Shock, incredulity that the most level-headed among them, the glue that held the occupants of the Glade together, would have succumbed to despondency. And fear, anxiety, because what if he tried again? What if that part of him that saw the maze as a grand play written for a sadistic audience still existed and still whispered to him, encouraging a dramatic end? 

“You...” You _can't_ , he'd wanted to say, but simply trailed off as his throat constricted against his will.

“Jumped. Climbed to the top of the walls, and jumped.”

The logic centers in Thomas's brain started whirring. “But you said the vines don't go all the way up...”

Newt shook his head and brought a palm to his forehead. “I don't... I don't remember how exactly I got up there, it was all...”

“But you remember what happened when you _were_ up there, right? You're sure of everything after that?” Thomas probed. 

The blond looked up, eyes narrowing curiously at his companion. “Well... I mean, what else could've...? I'm sure I was alone. I was up there, and I remember feeling like rubbish, and then... then I just remember the pain. Red, excruciating. Knocked my memories around, I think.”

Thomas decided to let it go. His inquisitive side begged to have a go, to explore all the sides of the peculiar incident, but he also didn't want to upset Newt. 

“Lucky you're not dead,” He ended up mumbling.

“Am I?” Newt countered sharply. “Still here. Still trapped.”

“I said I'd get you out, and I mean it. And damn it you'll _learn_ how to live again.”

“Again?” The former Runner pondered quietly, looking up at the dark blanket sky. “I'm not so sure there was anything before this, anyway. I wouldn't know.”

“But you feel it. We wouldn't try so hard every day to find a way _out_ if we had no idea we were ever in.”

“And what makes you so sure solving the maze is the way out? Don't pretend you didn't think about it, Tommy. You don't build a rutting _maze_ unless you want someone to solve it. And if we, by some miracle, solve the maze, doesn't that mean we're still playing their game? The performance is still on and we've only made it to the next stage of their sick experiment?”

“Newt...”

“I know,” He rushed. “Nobody wants to hear this kind of stuff. We'd rather believe things are as simple as they're presented here. Supplies arrive once a month, gates close at this time and this time, sun rises, sun falls, and when we find the exit to the maze, we win. The kids, they like that stuff, the predictability of it all. Gally likes the comfort of routine, of an unchanging conditions report. But you and me... we ask questions. Not just dumb Greenie klunk like where do I shit, where do I stand, blah blah... other stuff. What purpose we serve here, what role WICKED plays in all this, and if the Grievers come and go, why can't we?”

Thomas registered Newt's words with a rabid cognitive hunger. “When I was in the maze that night... When I was with Minho, and we were being chased by Grievers, he said I killed a Griever. But... I don't think I did. No, listen. I remember it rolled off the Cliff and disappeared, like it was...docking, or something. I think--”

“People see weird things in the maze, Tommy.” Newt said quietly, looking at his hands.

Thomas tucked away his speculations for later, turning to focus on his friend. 

“I don't think you jumped.”

Newt snorted, exasperated, and looked stubbornly up at the night sky. “You're out of your mind, Greenie.”

Frustrated by his unwillingness to talk about the strange incident and annoyed at the nickname, especially since the comatose girl who arrived after him was technically the newest arrival. Thomas stood up and eyed the former Runner from a height advantage for a few moments, finding himself no less dwarfed by the blond's firm grasp on authority, and left. 

 

That night Thomas was plagued by nightmares. The usual variety—flashes of lab work and white, sterilized surfaces—but also some new ones. 

He was being shoved violently, kicked and elbowed by an attacker he could not see, and all the while something was burning in the backdoor of his mind, a hum, a string of words he couldn't quite distinguish. 

_Kill--_

He fought back. He wrestled with the shadows until they began to peel themselves like second skins from his opponents. Once the shadows fell away, he saw that they were his friends, the other Gladers, all staring blankly ahead as if being controlled, all scratching at each other for a chance to get at Thomas.

_Kill--!_

Suddenly he was grabbed by the shoulders. He muffled his jerk reaction to struggle when he saw that, of course, it was Newt. There was a brief flicker of intelligence in Newt's dead eyes, and a whisper found its way to Thomas's ears even though it seemed nobody was speaking: “Please, Tommy, please...”

He remembered being confused, in the dream, not knowing what it was Newt needed from him, until suddenly the murmuring at the back of his mind fired forward like a bullet through his frontal lobe. 

_“KILL ME!”_

Thomas woke up with a strangled roar and twisted violently from his hammock, slamming—routinely, it seemed—onto the ground in the morning dew. Groaning, the Runner shook the last dregs of the nightmare from his mind and slowly righted himself. After some morning stretches to limber up for what he felt would be a long day, he began his usual routine.

All through his morning practices, breakfast and gearing up, Thomas couldn't quite stop thinking about the dream. It had been uncomfortable to see Newt so vulnerable, even though Thomas knew—though a part of him seemed curiously doubtful—that it was just a dream. Something about it had felt so... inevitable. But, Newt? Pleading for death? Impossible, Thomas thought. Newt was the embodiment of dignity in the Glade. What he lacked in sure-footedness he made up for with twice as much sure-handedness. And what very little he lacked in knowledge, he compensated for with ineffable reason. Newt was strength, intellect, and logic. Most of all, he was in _control_ , nothing like the dead-eyed zombie he fought in the dream. 

He got to the gate early, just as the walls were creaking open, and instead of waiting for Minho like usual, Thomas waved to the Keeper across the clearing and rushed out, head down and feet pounding. He could run from it.

Thomas avoided Newt all day. It wasn't particularly hard; when the Runners got back to the Glade it was already evening and simple enough to scavenge some food and retreat to the deep shadows of the hammock grove. Newt was still de facto leader as Alby recovered, so he was busy as well; he divided his attention between every Keeper all day, working alongside them and assessing their productivity. He kept the books, so to speak. So what little time Thomas usually spent dogging the Glader's steps was instead traded for solitude and brief exchanges with friends like Chuck, Minho, and Frypan. 

His second night was no better.

This time Thomas was plunged into several worlds at once, each like a breath of air or dunk of cold water compared to the last. The lab, the maze, dark tunnels and scorching earth. A woman, a rat-like man with a mole on his face, a girl with ink black hair... and then Newt. 

In between flickering scene changes and words just missed, Thomas found himself once or twice clearly standing on the walls of the maze, looking down to the crumpling stone and into a thick white fog. Almost simultaneously he was aware of standing in a facility he didn't recognize, a heavy weight in his hand and stretched out before him. In each scenario, Newt was in front of him, brown eyes gone gray with apathy. 

The words in the back of his mind were loud, clattering over each other unintelligibly, but sometimes one swam forward viciously, same as the previous night: _Kill m-- it's your fault! KILL ME!_

Somewhere above the scene, Thomas watches himself push Newt from the wall. Aims between Newt's eyes and squeezes the trigger. Then he falls into a dark abyss.

“Oy—oy! Thomas! Wake up, man, are you okay?”

Thomas squinted up from the ground beside his hammock, blinking in the chill morning light, and made out the outline of Minho leaning over him. 

Thomas's response came out a strangled mewl, and he rolled his eyes at his weak attempt at assurance just as Minho did the same, clapping a palm to Thomas's chest. “Pull yourself together, princess. Gates open soon. Section 4 today.”

He went about his day numbly, legs feeling like they were moving through tar and thoughts moving at about the same pace. Before he entered the maze he'd checked the Keepers' sleeping area just to make sure Newt was there, but the sight of his untidy blond hair and rhythmically rising chest did nothing to wipe the anxiety from Thomas's mind. He resolved, then, to make up for his past and future and unrealized wrongs, no matter what it took. He didn't know why he felt that he'd wronged Newt, and he didn't know how on earth he was going to go about making up for it, but it was enough to publish the assertion in his head, a small consolation in a world of doubt.


	3. Chapter 3

Just as the afternoon was drawing to a close, Newt looked up from his exhaustive work helping the Brickers repair some rotted boards outside the Homestead and was surprised to see the Runners come pounding into the clearing. It was too early yet for them to be finished, so Newt brushed the worst of the dirt from his hands and loped over to the panting boys to get a report.

Newt's nostrils flared once in spitting distance of the other Gladers. He'd just remembered his irritation with Thomas from the previous day; it was obvious he was being avoided, and if he was honest it pissed him off way more than it should have because he'd let Thomas _in_. He'd told him about his leg, answered his dumb questions, put faith in the guy, and that was hard stuff to do in a place like the Glade. 

“Report,” Newt snarled, accidentally punishing Minho with his mood.

Minho rolled his eyes as if he knew what Newt's problem was and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “The maze is totally out of whack. It started changing on us in the middle of the day and basically forced us back here. The Grievers are out of their hidey holes and we're all fucked.”

His annoyance swiftly vanished. “Grievers? In the daylight? Are you both all right?”

The Keeper exchanged a look with his fellow Runner and nodded grimly. “We're fine. But y'better hope the shanks don't find their way here before nightfall.”

“But while the maze is like this,” Thomas finally spoke up, quieter than usual, honey brown eyes brimming with worry. “We don't even know if the doors will close at all tonight.”

Minho was silent.

Newt whirled around and moved as fast as he could back to the Brickers, quickly barking some orders to their Keeper to begin reinforcing all doors and windows with any material they had. He passed the same order on to Gally without allowing any room for complaint, and then began making his way to the Gardens and the Slaughterhouse, feeling an uncomfortable twinge in his leg. 

 

“Do you have a plan?”

Newt blinked and glanced over his shoulder, having not realized that Thomas had been shadowing him the entire time. That explained Gally's constipated growling. 

“On speaking terms now, are we?” He knew it was childish, but he still felt betrayed and confused, and Thomas was the only Glader he would allow to see him legitimately peeved. 

When he received only silence, Newt rounded on Thomas, prepared to yell or send him away, but stopped when he saw the look on the Runner's face. _Anguish_ was the best way to describe it. An incredibly personal anguish that rimmed the adolescent's eyelids in dry red and hollowed out the shadow of his brow. 

Newt squinted. “Wot's wrong?”

Thomas shook himself physically, blinking back with forced calm. “It's not important--”

The Runner choked on his words when the blond shoved him backwards and lanced forward quick enough to snatch him by the back of the neck, nails digging into his scruff without remorse. “Don't _start_ with me,” He hissed dangerously. 

“Fine!” Thomas snarled, half in pain half in desperation, then mumbled weakly: “You're in danger.”

Newt stared, then shook him. “We're _all_ in danger, you bloody moron! _Why_ would you look at _me_ like that?”

The Runner went limp in the second-in-command's grasp. “I've been havin' these dreams... you get killed, you get shot, pushed or mind-controlled and I can't _take_ it anymore--”

“Dreams are only dreams, Tommy.” He interrupted quietly.

“ _Not_ in the Glade, Newt, and you know it!” He insisted. “And now the maze is changing, and all that order you talked about is crumbling around us and people are going to get _scared_ and do stupid things and I haven't seen the sun in two days and the Grievers could roll in here at any moment and I don't _trust_ myself to protect you!”

The blond's eyes darted back and forth, trying to connect the other Glader's array of misaligned dots. “Why would you care-- you've done nothing but ignore me the past--”

“Because I pull the trigger, man.” Thomas's eyes bored into his superior's insistently, that anguished shadow descending once again. “ _I_ push you. In every one of my dreams, it's always me... And I couldn't... I've got nothing else, no other reason to escape this place, to...”

“Yeah, yeah you do. You've got Chuck, Minho. You've got debts here to repay. And even if I'm killed tonight, it won't be your fault, it'll be mine. It'll be my own damn weaknesses.”

“But if they kill you, then--”

“Then what? Then there's one less Glader. One more name to cross off the wall. That's it. And I'll be damned if my worrying about my own life gets others killed,” With that, Newt spun around and continued his way to the Gardens. 

Thomas trotted after him, the conversation only serving to make him more worried and his mind more tortured at the prospect of losing the only thing that tethered him to the Gladers, to his responsibility. 

“Zart! Get your Track-hoes to gather up anything resembling a weapon and bring them to Carl or the first Bagger you see. I want you to take inventory and come back to me with the numbers, ken?”

Zart dropped his trowel and nodded solemnly, immediately setting off for the sheds.

Newt was just turning when he spotted Winston jogging by in his black leather apron and collared the Keeper immediately. “All your weapons, anything you have, bring them to Carl. Arm anyone who's willing to fight, then report back.”

Even Winston knew now was not the time to challenge Newt's authority or make any sharp quips. The Keeper of the Slicers merely jerked his chin forward and ran for the Slaughterhouse. Newt was already moving again before Winston had even turned away. 

The blond made several more stops, each successive one bringing more stress to his leg and more worry lines to his face. He ordered Frypan to wrangle anyone he could to help him transport the leftover cooking oils he had from the day's cooking to the edge of the field. He visited Clint and the other Med-jacks to brief them on the situation and have Serum on hand all night. Lastly, he recruited some unoccupied Builders and Sloppers to follow him out to the edge of the field with digging tools. 

The harvesting fields ended several yards from the entrance to the maze, nothing but a bare stretch of short grass between the waving wheat fronds and the creaking stone. By the time Newt limped over with an increasingly agonized Thomas in tow, Frypan was waiting with several gallons of old cooking oil. 

Newt directed the Gladers to begin digging trenches just beyond the edge of the field, approximately 6 feet wide and 3 feet deep. Baggers arrived to erect a barrier of makeshift spears, and each trench was soaked in oil. The second-in-command patrolled the Glade, directing the Brickers to focus their barricading on the Homestead, and ushered the young and unoccupied Gladers into the Homestead and away from the outer reaches of the Glade. He did everything he could, and after explaining briefly and simply the situation to the Keepers, he took volunteers for a first shift of guards to leave the Homestead and wait in the fields. It was a motley group of Baggers, Slicers, and Builders. He appointed a second string to take over for the latter half of the night, hoping they wouldn't be needed, then left the Homestead as the dying rays of sunlight were making their last appeal over the maze walls.

Once outside, Newt allowed himself to yawn and rub at his leg. His palms ached from digging, he stank of cooking oil and animal fats, and he felt bulky under the unfamiliar weight of new weaponry; his old machete blade was now accompanied by a small knife and a bone spear. 

Once standing at the cusp of Pride Rock, looking out over the fields and their pitiful defenses, Newt noted grimly that the gate to the maze was indeed still open. He felt death creeping up on him tonight, and the desire to just go belly up was a tempting one. But Alby hadn't yet recovered from the Changing, so he was all the Gladers had. 

Newt sighed, desperate and forlorn, and glanced down at his constant shadow. Thomas gripped his spear tightly in both palms, a new dagger tucked into his leather Runner's pack and face set in hard angles. Newt wished he knew the source of the kid's determination, where all that bravery was coming from. He was probably exhausted. 

“Rest,” Newt grunted. “You might need it.”

Thomas spared him a brief, exasperated look, and the blond merely shrugged. Fine. 

A darkness had settled thinly about the Glade, and just as Thomas's eyelids began to droop and his head bob dangerously, he heard it. 

A vast, earth shaking groan and creak, and the sound of stone grinding against stone filled the clearing. 

Thomas looked hopefully up at Newt. The gate was closing. 

Newt was already moving, making his way down from the rock with the help of his spear, and hobbling immediately off for the fields, Thomas following hurriedly. 

“Get back!” The blond howled as soon as they were within range of the line of watching Baggers at the edge of the field. “Get back here, and draw your bloody weapons.”

The light of Carl's torch lit the immediate area, casting them all in a dirty orange light. The Keeper of the Baggers was clutching a sturdy pikestaff in his other hand, wearing his usual pinched, unamused expression. 

The doors were still groaning, and just as it seemed like they'd be safe another night, Thomas heard the faintest whisper of a familiar squeal, the sound of clashing, spinning blades. 

“They're here,” The Runner whispered. 

“Stand by,” Newt called with a raised hand. “I will not blame you for running. But I want you all to understand... running makes you prey. Tonight, we must be the hunters.”

Three Grievers squealed into the clearing as the gates finally slammed shut. There was a bristle of nervous weaponry and a shuffle of fear that swept through the Gladers' ranks. Newt's hand was still in the air. 

The Grievers moved at alarming speed, locking immediately onto the glow of light from their torches. 

“Torches out!” Newt commanded. 

There was a hiss, and the thin darkness became all-encompassing night, punctured by the metallic shriek of the Grievers' whirring limbs. Slowly, Thomas's eyes adjusted to the silver moonlight, just barely picking our the fast-approaching black globs. 

They waited, and waited, and finally, when Thomas feared the Grievers would pounce before they had a chance to muster themselves, Newt dropped his hand. 

Behind them at the watchtower, Jeff the med-jack—best eyesight in the Glade—fired a flaming arrow into the night. It soared worryingly high before dropping from the sky and straight into the network of hastily-dug trenches. 

With a sputter, a crack, and a gust of suddenly devoured oxygen, the Glade burst into flame. For one fearful moment, Thomas could see every wrinkle, every tooth and bolt, of the lead Griever. Then it let out a horrific scream as one of the standing spears tore into its soft underbelly and it toppled headfirst into the fiery trench. 

The next Griever caught fire and rushed into the ranks of Gladers, and the third jumped clear over the pit to land among the wheat. 

Roaring in fear and resolution, the Gladers charged the beasts. Thomas dropped and rolled to avoid a flaming spray of dirt before running into the fray. Carl and his Baggers were crowding one of the Grievers, doing the best they could to avoid its flailing limbs while repeatedly jabbing at its sides with their spears. 

The last Griever had found a group of cowering Sloppers and Thomas's heart clenched as he saw that it already had one in its jaws, his mind conjuring an image of Chuck being torn apart. With a yell, he skidded to a stop in front of the Sloppers and drew the monster's attention by thrusting his spear at its beady eye area. Just as he'd succeeded in turning it away from the group, there was a flash in his peripheral and he turned in time to see Newt, running as if he'd never had an injury before, high on his toes and moving like lightning the boy hurled him self between and underneath the deadly blades of the Griever, dragging his machete deep across the slimy underbelly.

With a piercing cry, the Griever scuttled to confront its new attacker, long barbed tail uncoiling and jabbing repeatedly into the ground even as its guts spilled from the new wound.

 _No._ Thomas sprinted forward and rolled to a crouch over Newt's body, thrusting his spear forward and up through the tender jowls of the creature, losing his grip as it went into death throes. 

_“-MAS! The tail!”_ came a cry. 

Thomas looked up just as the Griever's final act brought its tail lancing through the air at them. Without a moment's hesitation, he curled an arm around his leader and rolled once more, feeling something sharp jab into his back even as the Griever collapsed to the ground with one last gurgle. 

Flames danced before Thomas's hooded eyes, and he watched, numb and tired, as little antling shadows overcame the last monster in the Glade and, sure that Newt was safe, he succumbed to his exhaustion at last.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made it through midterm week, guys. Holy god.  
> Had to run a damn 5k to get inspiration for this. Putting myself in the maze, I guess.  
> Don't know how much longer this will go, short on time and out of ideas for now. Comments are welcome and very much appreciated.

“Thomas! _Thomas!_ Wake _up_ you shucking... _Ergh!_ ” 

The Runner awoke at last to a sting on his cheek, immediately choking on the ash that clogged the air around him. He wasn't surprised to be waking up on his back in the dirt any more. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Thomas beheld the Glade to find that only minutes had passed since he blacked out, and the Gladers were still in the process of picking themselves up and calling for their friends. 

Newt was on his knees looming over him, and Thomas—ears ringing and toes tingling—was sufficiently distracted by the way the firelight honored the blond's silhouette, cloaking him in a lurid glow of power. Even with tracks of sweaty black ash streaking his face, Newt was stunningly out of place in the ugly world. Thomas almost smiled.

“Hey, come on, don't blank out on me again you bloody heroic shuckface. You-- Why in _hell_ are you laughing?” 

“Because you're alive.”

Newt stared, off-balanced from receiving a straight answer for once. Finally he sighed, allowing himself to feel the barest strain of relief for the first time all day, and on a whim leaned down to press his dirty forehead to Thomas's. “So I am. After this we're definitely having a conversation about your priorities. Can you sit up?”

He helped the Runner slowly approach a sitting position, almost letting his lingering worries recede entirely before noticing a dampness on his hand. Pulling it away from Thomas's back, he found his palm slick with blood. 

“Tommy--”

Thomas swayed, having difficulty opening his eyes and feeling curiously numb everywhere below his ribs. “Hm?”

Newt was already moving behind him, shouting at the nearest Glader to bring Clint over before relieving Thomas of his Runner's pack and pushing his shirt up. The blond hissed upon seeing the blood map beneath his friend's shoulder blade. It was too hard to locate the actual puncture. Without delay, he tore a strip from the shirt and began mopping up the blood, squinting in the dark to confirm if the wound was a sting or not. 

“What we got over here?” A med-jack called, trotting over with a field kit.

“I asked for Clint!” Newt snapped, immediately regretting his impulsive behavior. Of course Clint, as Keeper and the most skilled of the med-jacks, would have better things to do than run to check up on someone who was still conscious and clearly _alive_ when others might be in more immediate danger. 

“Well, you got me,” The med-jack raised his hands placatingly. “I'm gonna need you to back away from him now.”

Newt bit his lip, but pulled himself away to give the healer some space, crawling back to examine the front of his friend. Thomas had closed his eyes, but he was still breathing and appeared self-aware. 

The second-in-command brushed at the Runner's dark bangs to check on a cut at his forehead that was bleeding profusely, but found it to be relatively small and shallow. _Intact_ , he kept telling himself, and the part of him that insisted on being a responsible leader kept urging him to rise and check on the other Gladers, but he really, really couldn't. 

“How d'you feel, Tommy?”

His honey brown eyes reflected even the barest flickers of light. “Like an old sock. You?”

Newt quirked a brief, humorless smirk. “Like a raw nerve. There's a couple hours of night left, I think, you could probably catch some sleep.”

“You could, too.”

The med-jack stood up and backed away, zipping up his satchel. Newt looked at him expectantly. “Well? Is it a sting? Does he need the Serum?”

“Naw, that's a stab wound, that is. Probably Griever blade, lucky shot, but it's clean and bandaged and clotting nicely. Greenie'll be fine.” 

Newt took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders as the med-jack moved away to the next among the injured. 

“Don't tell him, but...” Newt looked up as Thomas began to speak, slow and slurred. “But I think I rolled over onto my own damn blade.”

Newt looked around and, sure enough, in the dirt where the Griever's guts spilled lay a shiny dagger darkened with blood at the tip. 

“That's pathetic,” He deadpanned.

The Runner snorted. “Don't I know it. Listen, I know you're gonna wanna do your sacrificial leader klunk, but they got it. Tell someone from second shift, tell Minho to take over, and he will, I know it. You need to sleep.” Thomas climbed slowly to his feet, and Newt saw that his wound had been bandaged tightly in sterilized gauze and appeared to be finished bleeding. 

“I, uh...” The blond refused to meet his friend's eyes. “I don't think I can walk.” His desperate attack on the Griever had severely soured his bad leg's relationship with the rest of his body. 

Some of the foggy exhaustion cleared from Thomas's eyes and acute worry took its place. He stretched out an arm. “Cummon, we'll make it.”

Once Newt was up and balanced on his good leg, the Runner pulled his arm around his shoulders and wrapped his own around the boy's waist, moving slowly in the direction of the barricaded Homestead. 

“Saw you out there,” Thomas grunted. “Amazing. Never seen anyone move that fast.”

Newt shrugged. “Always wanted to be covered in Griever guts.”

“Erm,” The former Runner continued. “I wasn't awake, exactly, for all of it, Griever kinda knocked me out, but, I know you risked your life for me and, well, thanks.” A quiet admission followed his words: “I was afraid.”

“I could never leave you to die, Newt. Not if there's anything I can do about it, anythin' at all. Even if it meant taking your place in that thing's jaws. Even if it means turnin' the gun on myself.”

Thomas looked over at his companion curiously in the dark as he heard a croaky laugh. “What?”

“It's just... I have no idea what I've done to deserve such loyalty, from you least of all.”

Thomas blinked, realizing that Newt didn't know the half of it. He didn't know the half of Thomas that stretched toward Newt the way a flower stretched to the sun or the hair on his arms rose to static; he didn't know the half of Thomas's memories—past and future—that revealed themselves in spoiled, flickering dreamscapes; he didn't know the debt Thomas owed to him and the wrongs he'd committed and _would_ commit against the Gladers. 

“Newt...” Thomas started, knowing he would be unable to communicate the true gravitas of his debt, and instead accidentally lost himself in the name. 

It was a strange name, Thomas thought, though he didn't quite have the memory hard drive to say exactly why it was strange. He knew a couple things about newts. He knew they were famously adaptable, living equally successfully in water and on land, and were—ironically—capable of regenerating lost limbs. Newts were not known for their strength, but in myth they were creatures of fire. Thomas feared for Newt's fire, his resilience. The dreams that haunted him had begun with ferocity immediately after learning about the former Runner's leg. He'd been dreaming since day one, sure, but when faced with unfamiliar faces and places Thomas was able to shake off their lingering effects in the morning; that all changed when the shadowy figures revealed themselves to be some of his few friends in the Glade. 

Newt especially, he thought. Newt, who had been in the maze for years and had not turned cold like Alby, had not turned his back or cowered when others were endangered or in pain. And even when it seemed he no longer had the will to go on, he fronted each day with the kind of surety and effortless leadership that had just coaxed order from a chaotic cluster of teenage boys about to be ransacked by deadly and unnatural horrors. 

While Thomas chewed his words and his lip to pieces, Newt watched curiously.

Thomas appeared to be meditating hard on something. Ruminating, almost; as though he'd caught a galaxy of thoughts between his teeth and was testing them violently for insecurities. The emotional standstill written on his friend's face made him look kind of deranged, and the blood from the cut on his forehead now drying around his eyes did nothing to help the image. Newt wondered what went on in Thomas's head to make him such a single-minded _hound_ , snapping at anything within reach that offered answers, sometimes devouring and sometimes simply crushing into submission until he could claw through all the information he liked and discard all that he didn't.  
Newt had always known Thomas was like this, ever since he saw him make that desperate run from the Boxhole within moments of arriving, since he challenged Gally and forced many of the Glade's coldest and oldest patrons to go belly-up and accept that change was coming. Newt hadn't bothered to intervene because he had already given up on a future. But he supposed, now that he considered it, he too had submitted to the feral force of nature that was Thomas and his drive to escape. It was the first thing Newt would ever admit to being contentedly subordinate to; every other ignominious facet of his wretched life in the Glade was voluntarily and _obsessively_ controlled. The maze was a dark and dangerous enigma and Newt's coping mechanism—his crutch—was _control_. Even if it was just a small hand played in Glade politics, or a supporting role in discipline, production, and labor, or a few words on how many bloody daisies were planted this season, Newt needed control the way Thomas needed the hunt. 

He'd begun to see a change, lately. He'd watched a shadow come over Thomas in the past few days, souring his heroic determination with desperation, hungering for release from fear the way a wolf tries to run from sickness. The tables had turned, the hunter had become hunted, pursued by something invisible to all but its victims, and seeing Thomas, the guy who'd killed more Grievers and broken more rules and delved deeper into the mysteries of the maze than anyone in the Glade... seeing him like this had released a deluge of dread inside Newt. 

“Well?”

Thomas shook himself out of his daze, the return to consciousness accompanied by a sharp renewal of pain in his back and a pounding in his skull. Newt was looking at him with his patented _what the fuck_ face that only he could pull off with such utter, condescending perfection. “Whuh?”

The blond rolled his eyes, dark and accusing. “Don't _whuh_ me. You can't just say my name like—like a bloody _prayer_ and expect me to let it go. Wot's going on in that buggin' head of yours?”

Thomas appraised their distance to the Homestead and took his chances with a shrug. He could tell his superior would not accept such a lame answer, but Thomas counted on the probability that he wouldn't pursue it in the presence of the other Gladers. 

Indeed, Newt was about to go _off_ on the Runner for his stupid, bloody non-responses—which he thought was ironic given how patient Newt had been with him when he was just a dumb hyper-inquisitive Greenie—but then Thomas exhaled a half-sigh and adjusted his grip on his torso, arm falling to find purchase on Newt's hip and haul him in closer for more stability as they picked their way around the Homestead's defenses.

Something about the innocent, business-like maneuver punched all the breath out of Newt's lungs, and even as he racked up ten thousand and one reasons to be pissed at the Greenie, he found his anger swiftly draining to be replaced by a weird, sorrowful gratitude for the comforting proximity that Thomas so freely offered. Newt wondered how it was possible for someone he'd known so shortly to have such power over him. He wondered why it was so easy to give in, to sacrifice his incredible control for the simple but oddly consuming friendship Thomas had pulled him into. 

Their arrival was rushed and cluttered by the panic and confusion of the second shift Gladers. Once they'd navigated the Homestead's extensive defenses—as extensive as their limited means allowed, anyway, meaning tables and leftover building materials pushed against and hammered over the existing walls—Minho was the first to break through the swarms of Gladers eager to receive news from their interim leader. 

The Keeper surged forward to clasp arms with Newt and bring their foreheads together. Thomas had thought it made them look like Roman war heroes after a long campaign, but after his few weeks in the Glade he didn't see it as silly any more. It was like an intimate, economic way to tell someone they were important to you, without all the girly mush and pawing through a dictionary to express yourself just right; instead, with just a few simple movements you could accomplish everything you needed, be it _'I was worried,' 'thank God you're here,' 'let's not die today,' 'you never gave me back that video game I lent you, you piece of shit'..._ things like that. 

And even though Thomas knew that, and was actually very familiar with the brotherly greeting, he still felt a scratch of ill-will in his throat at the sight of it. He forgot Minho and Newt were such good buddies. It made sense, of course, since they were both some of the longest surviving members of the Glade, and life-and-death do-or-die stuff like that tended to bond people. Curious, Thomas turned the vile and irrational emotion over in his head; he could never be mad at Minho for long. He found that it wasn't ill-will at all, but rather the recognition of an unsatisfied craving. Minho, with his years of experience and his casual disposition, was allowed to freely show affection for Newt.

Well, Thomas was sure he would be allowed the same, but he was too afraid. He had too much to tell Newt, too much that he had to understand and too much raw emotion in his actions; he was afraid Newt would feel it, that he would be unnerved or repulsed. But that was just who Thomas was—all or nothing. He couldn't leave something so important to him to an unfamiliar gesture; he was too much of a perfectionist, and instead tended to bark at people until they understood him perfectly. 

“--Thomas! Boy, listen to me for once!” 

The Runner snapped to it to find Minho before him, eyes flicking to and fro. 

A slow grin crept to the weary Keeper's face. “Stabbed by your own blade, huh?”

Thomas growled and shot a glare at Newt. “Leave it.”

“I always knew you got your thrills from violence, Tommy boy, but, don't you think this is pushing it?”

“We can't run forever, Minho.”

The Asian boy sighed, grin dropping, and stepped forward to clap a hand on his Runner's shoulder and bring their heads together briefly. “Just kicking shit, you know that. 'M glad you're both alright,” He stepped back, growing stern and leader-like. “Get checked out by the 'jacks upstairs and then try to catch a few. You boys look like the walking dead.”

Minho moved away through the throngs of questioning Gladers--”Is everyone okay?” “We heard the screams. Did they come?” “Are there Griever bodies outside?” “Are they the only survivors?” “What will we do now?” “Will the doors be like this from now on?”--to take out a small team and relieve the first shift of fighters from their watch and patrol duties. 

The general panic of the ground floor of the Homestead was just beginning to leech off on Thomas when he was surprised by a touch to the back of his neck as an arm slid around his shoulders.

“Let's get outta here,” Newt mumbled, looking tired and cross and altogether finished with leadership, and began to hop forward on his good leg, forcing Thomas to accommodate him as before. His jealousy—he admitted it—began to sink and ooze from the hole in his back to be replaced by a resigned fondness. The animal in him still wanted to bring Newt down like a sick faun, but reason told him he would never have the kind of relationship he and Minho shared. 

The med-jacks attending to Alby and the comatose girl jumped at the chance to be of some help. Newt imagined that waiting around for the danger to pass was a feeling as sickening as standing in the fields covered in yellow Griever goo. Maybe. 

He turned down any offering of food, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep anything down in his state of mind and being, and made for the last available bed. The makeshift splint aligning his bad knee and ankle improved his mobility greatly, if not so much his awkwardness, leaving him feeling guilty for not returning the favor by answering the med-jacks' few questions. If only Alby would wake up, they wouldn't need to deal with such a shamefully self-absorbed leader anymore. 

Freshly bandaged and looking about as filthy as Newt felt, Thomas had taken one last look around the medical floor of the Homestead before making for the stairs. 

“Thomas!” Newt called out from his corner, his voice coming out impatient and about half as exhausted as he deserved to be. He didn't understand what could possibly concern Thomas enough to want to return to the ground floor and all that chaos. And even though he had to bite his lip at the selfishness of wanting to hoard the Runner's attention, he was able to convince himself that it was for his own good; the guy looked shucking exhausted. 

“Don't be stupid,” Newt finally said quietly. 

Thomas heard the quiet words as if they'd been sung into his ears. He matched gazes with the Glade's interim leader, hungry and questing, but couldn't make it past the impassive darkness of the blond's eyes. 

Numbly hopeful, he loped over. The beds he passed were occupied either by the sleeping sick and injured or cluttered with blinking, wide-eyed owlet Gladers unable to sleep and unable to speak. The only light aside from the moonlit silver veins bleeding along the boarded windows were a few gas lights by the stairs where the med-jacks sometimes paced back and forth, sitting and standing repeatedly at one of the few chairs not broken down for barricade material.

The beds were thin, dusty wafers of feather and straw, the sheets were threadbare and stiff from over washing, but when Thomas sat down at the edge it was an incredible relief; it had been so long since he'd sat, since he'd _stilled._ He allowed himself a few unharried breaths, trying to rid himself of the buzzing blundering thoughts in his head that fed him competing ideas of _build destroy_. 

Fingers probed curiously at the fresh gauze matting over his stab wound. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

“Not really. The shit I'll keep getting from Minho for falling on my own sword will hurt worse.” 

Newt snorted and shifted forward to lie down, leg propped up on a pillow to help its circulation. He then began staring up at the rudimentary rafters so intently that Thomas wondered if he'd found something new and perplexing up there, something that might provide answers if he stared hard enough. Without really thinking, the Runner adjusted himself to join his leader, but all his eyes found were thick shadows hung with cobweb chandeliers. 

“Oy, Tommy,” Newt started, chewing at the end of the string in his shirt. “You said you saw a Griever disappear the other night, right?” 

“Hm? Yeah, we did.” 

“Think we could check it out?” 

“I mean... Good luck getting the Keepers to agree with that.” 

“Not everybody has to go or even know about it. We'd just need a small unit to investigate.” 

Thomas was shaking his head. “It's too dangerous, we'd be picked off one by one and that wouldn't do anyone any good.” 

Newt shifted his shoulders against the sheets, an almost comically thoughtful look on his face. “That doesn't sound so bad. Nice and heroic, really.” 

“Newt...” Thomas started, enduring an onslaught of déjà vu. 

“Startin' to think they'd be better off without me.” 

“You gotta be shuckin'... This glade would be a collection of _parts_ without you, man. It'd be nothing but a bunch of prepubescent male hormones scattered in a sowing field of diluted survival instincts without direction or common purpose. And if what you did tonight with the Grievers, organizing all those klunkheads and then the digging and trapping, doesn't tell you that, then you've gotta seriously lower your standards." 

“Two people died tonight.” 

“And their friends will sit vigil for them. Far more would have died without your leadership, and in all likelihood more will die, maybe tomorrow and maybe even again tonight. The point is, for someone who owes so little to this place, you sure do manage to care a lot. It's crazy. And yet you, you of all people...” Thomas paused, had to look away from Newt and back at the ceiling. “I could never shoot you. The ones who trapped us here have plans for us, and I think...I _feel_ death coming. It's killing me. It's consuming me. I don't know whether to stay away from you or to put myself between everything else and you.” 

They were both silent long after the comment passed heavily through the air. Time seemed to stretch itself into long wavelengths and he was just beginning to fall asleep when Newt's voice pierced the groggy film creeping through the corners of his eyes. 

“I never told you, Tommy, but I have dreams too. And ever since the night you came up in the Boxhole,” Newt's mutter went from a canter to a slow, quiet trickle. “I've been dying in the end.” 

_Gone._

In the darkness, something approached him. A god, perhaps, or a devil, maybe just a metaphor. He shrunk away but it crept closer like clockwork, without speed but with tremendous surety. Thomas, his dignity utterly deserting him, tried to run. His soles pounded the dreamy earth, toes curling and chest swelling. His claws dug into the dirt and the air swam with the sound of his panting and the gnash of his frantic frothing teeth. He howled for help but knew he was alone. 

_Past the Gone._

Screams rang out at his heels and threw shadows of writhing snakes on the shapeless walls, and Thomas still ran, paws thumping in time with his massive canine heart. His fear came to a peak when one of the shadows lashed out and struck him beneath the shoulder blade and sent him crashing and sliding to the ground. 

The hunter, felled and blinded, waited fearfully for the darkness's approach, shocked when it offered nothing but the barest touch of a kiss. 

Thomas was left in deep shadow, thinking his nightmares were truly out to destroy him. 


End file.
